My darling wife Misses T. is back from her shopping spree in Paris and is now where she belongs — in the kitchen. And although I am glad that she didn’t blow all the 750 million on loan from the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy on clothes as I had feared, the sound of her newly fitted ankle chains and shackles is really beginning to annoy me. The village bank manager who gave her the new credit card shortly before she swanned off to the gay capital of the world has now been retired and is spending an infinite amount of time with his freshly dead family — in the graveyard.
My psychiatrist has prescribed a new course of psych meds and a heavy duty course of antibiotics so that I may be released to continue God’s work. However, the ‘me’ you saw on the TV last night – a mere shadow of my all-powerful all-seeing self — was a body double following a party script, all kind and conciliatory. The local vicars assure me that this is only a temporary measure to keep the unwashed off the streets until my riot police have had some decent kip. Then I can wind everyone up again and we can go to battle once more.
I see the doctors are complaining that I object to them healing the sick and wounded. Of course I bloody do! Those traitors are ruining all my good work. Hypocritical oath my arse! I’m the only one who is allowed to be a hypocrite around here. What is the bloody point of being (democratically elected) Supreme Being if you can’t do a little spiteful smiting like the good Lord does in the Old Testaments of all of the great world religions. My word! the Old Testament is a bloody good read! Incest, sacrificing children, cannibalism, sodomy, mass slaughters and offering daughters up to the crowd for rape instead of the son. Fantastic stuff. Who needs Hollywood? This is why we need new Faith Schools to be built right across the shires.
I dined heartily on kippered baby hamsters freshly picked from the cages of the local Brownie Pack that has been such a pain in my side in recent days. During the meal I was interviewed by a Japanese film crew who seemed to have an obsession with my sex life. After my spell in jail on completely fictitious animal molestation charges Mrs T and I had agreed that perhaps it was time that our marriage became more spiritual. So the questions from these Japanese journalists about my sexual dysfunction really got on my nerves. And how did they know? Who told them? They just kept asking me again and again, “When will be your next erection?” I got thoroughly confused but Mrs T laughed helpfully and chipped in from her new bed of straw next to the cooker, “Not in this lifetime.”